The Return of the Son of the Bride of Frankenstein Rides Again

“Whereas the first 16–17 episodes of the original series was a painting, brought about by careful deliberation from many artists, The Return was a madman’s canvas — sometimes carefully painted, other times sprayed with a ketchup bottle or just vomited on at a late night afterparty that seemed a good idea at the time.”

And I still have my sanity ¹.

I think that must, at least in part, be because, by episode 7, I had already given up trying to follow it as such and … after episode 8 did its whole “watch me pleasure myself by wiping my own soiled underwear all over my body” thing … kinda lost the will to do more than just let it wash over me ².

Am I glad I experienced it?


Could I tell you why?

Not without divulging things about myself that I wouldn’t even tell a stranger on the bus, let alone a therapist, no ³— let’s just say I discovered depths of lassitude and ennui lurking within my soul that even I am prepared to paper over with the brittle smile of Denial .

Was it groundbreaking?

Did it confound expectation?

Did it, once again, break the mould of Television?

No, no and no; it’s been done before … by David Lynch, as it happens. Or, maybe, Cronenberg. Or one of that lot — whoever … whatever.

It’s not T.V. at all, let alone breaking the mould; in the same way ‘music you might also like’ streamed on Spotify is not an album or even a compilation but a stream of music, it’s a stream of Twin Peaks, not a T.V. show — and streaming is not even a relatively new concept, never mind a groundbreaking one.

Could it be an observation that what passes for modern entertainment is a tired trickle of vapidity without end, mind-numbingly meaningless and inconclusive?

Who cares?

“Ejaculating haphazard ideas on to a screen doesn’t make for good viewing”

If your idea of entertainment is watching three people do nothing and be bored in different locations until the cast and crew lost interest in filming it, then watch Stranger Than Paradise — but you probably won’t have the required attention span for the LESTP3TR and will be frustrated by the lack of action whilst, ironically, finding what does happen unnecessarily frantic .

Oddly, I don’t care about the hours of my life needlessly, fruitlessly, pointlessly lost to it … I’m just indifferent to it and the whole experience, couldn’t possibly care any less than I do … and the only reason for mentioning it is that that’s a new thing for me.

I’m intolerant of a lot of things.

I’m deeply disturbed by far too much that I see in this world.

I’m completely unphased by many others.

But I’m never indifferent.

I have an opinion on everything … as I’m sure you’re all too keenly aware … and, even when I’m ‘indifferent’ I’m vehemently so — wildly ambivalent rather than indifferent 😉

But on this occasion, having spent so long waiting for the story to be concluded, I should not only be upset/angry/bitterly disappointed but, even were I to feel nothing at all, I should at least feel nihilistically numb (vehemently indifferent) about it — I should be able to feel my indifference.

And I just feel … meh.

I’m not only not upset/angry nor even disappointed … but I feel nothing whatsoever about it — not even numb but … serenely untroubled by the waste of time, energy, talent and resources that must’ve gone into its making, utterly sanguine about the time I spent watching it, that I’ll never see again, calmly unbothered about the life I lost to it.

In that regard at least, it’s remarkable bit of televisual history.

Otherwise though, it was the non-event of my life.

Some things are not even wrong.

Twin Peaks season 3, The Return, A Limited Event Series is not even bad.

If I felt strongly enough, I’d say something like this … but, since someone else has already done that, I needn’t even do that much about it — and there’s more than enough people prepared to discuss its flaws here.

“Coach Trip is awful. The Boat That Rocked is awful. But The Return is in a completely different category. If it were an album it would be Metal Machine Music. If it were a poet it would be a gangsta-rapping William MacGonagall. If it were a ballet it would be Roger Ailes, H. Weinstein, Rupert Murdoch, Rush Limbaugh, Prince Philip, the Orange Nazi Benny Hill and David Lynch naked but for tutus, Viagra’d up and twerking so vigorously the entire building collapses and kills the audience, then continuing the twerking at the audience members’ funerals, then jumping in a Tardis to go back in time for more grotesque twerking to desecrate the audience members’ births, first romantic kisses, weddings, christenings, hospice deaths of loved ones, then approaching the audience members’ friends and somehow communicating to them via extra vigorous twerking that the audience member actually had a completely different name, and anyway never existed in the first place, it was all a dream, cuz, like, Fuck nostalgia, amirite, buddy?”

In short …

“David Lynch did not have a story to tell us, and that’s why he never bothered to do it.”

¹ Or at least no less of it than I had to start with anyway.

² I think I now understand how people can let themselves go so far as to end up taking part in bukkake porn.

³ There are some boxes and doors that are best left firmly locked …

⁴ I’m not even sure I could be bothered to kill an Arab over it to be honest — that’s how nihilistically divorced from my own emotions I am.

⁵ Actually, Stranger Than Paradise is superb, but you get my point.



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Where Angels Fear

Where Angels Fear


There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live and too rare to die.